In short: Like many people, CM takes issue with the obesity epidemic in America today, and strives to care deeply about the foods her kids eat. For some, "care deeply" equates to, say, avoiding high fructose corn syrup, or seeking out organic products. In CM's case, it involves a cavalcade of unintentional hilarity, including, but not limited to, (allegedly) expletive-laden rants towards her kids' school board, openly calling Santa Claus fat/waging a battle against Girl Scout cookies, and my personal favorite, absconding with the syrup and sprinkles from a YMCA ice cream table, resulting in the police being called. I spent the better part of my Tuesday evening reading up on this woman--who admits she doesn't really eat breakfast or lunch-- and she is...well, AWFUL. I could go off on a tear here about my fears and concerns related to raising kids with healthy self images and blah di blah, but that's been done a million times over by people far more eloquent than me, so instead I'll focus on the Awe-Inspiring Crazy that is a woman who flees with ice cream toppings, thereby incurring the ire of the NYPD.
Another part of the article that stuck with me? When we learn that the PTA in her old town all but asked her to move. This is how I know I'm a blogger, because I was all, "But WHYYYYY?" I would LOVE if this woman was (tangentially) in my life. Can you imagine the material she'd provide? I'd be SALIVATING, like, "Is that your best shot? Stealing sprinkles? Bah! Come on, crazy lady! I know you can do better! Give me more! MORE, I say!" Which reminds me--it truly saddens me that I didn't have a blog 112 years ago when I was superficially acquainted with a man who, among other things, lived in a studio apartment with a promiscuous Russian man, was deeply involved in Renaissance Faire circles (specifically, jousting), had a picture of himself laying sideways IN HIS PAJAMAS on his desk, and kind of briefly stalked me. Harmlessly. I think.
In other news, J is getting the new iPhone shortly (from work! I KNOW!), and as a current Blackberry owner, is exceedingly nervous about learning to type on the new device. As such, he wanted to practice typing, and asked if he could borrow my phone to do so. I went to the kitchen to make a grilled cheese sandwich (BREAAAAAD! CHEEEEEESE! Take THAT, crazy junk food lady!), and returned a few minutes later to find the TV on and him furiously typing. I inquired whether he was writing an email, only to be informed that he was, but more specifically, he was "writing a stream-of-consciousness plot summary of part of Mighty Ducks 3, since that's what was on when [he] turned on the TV."
I calmly nodded and then asked him if he could send me his writing when it was done. And then he did. And then I died:
Charlie and Fulton quit the team because they are whiny assholes. "I mean, I don't know if I want to play hockey my whole life." "Fine, I don't care." "I don't need you. Just GO." Hans passes away. It was so sudden. Gordon Bombay can save the day. Beautiful music plays at funeral scene as Hans is laid to rest. Bombay places the old Ducks jersey on Hans's coffin. He whispers a sexy comment into Charlie's mom's ear and disappears into the wind. Charlie wakes up with Bombay on the end of his bed. Charlie doesn't understand. Neither do I. But the all-knowing Bombay has a few tricks up his skate. Orion has a crippled daughter and now Charlie understands the true meaning behind life, and also, high school hockey. Yes, it all becomes crystal clear in a moment's time. Bombay shows Charlie an old picture depicting himself as a hotshot player back in he 1970's. Charlie knows what he must do: He must grow his hair long and have sideburns and he, too, will become a legend. Bombay tells Charlie that he is the true Minnesota Miracle man. And now I'm done and hitting send.
Perhaps this is only funny if you, like me, have seen the damn movie more times than you'd care to admit, but I very nearly wet myself.
And while we're speaking about my family, my brother texted me earlier today, saying "I am behind a truck that is clearly transporting racing pigeons." My reply was "WTF?" because, well, what the hell is a racing pigeon? His response:
I was all prepared to ask if any of you knew anything about the concept of racing pigeons, but my brother came through with his own research, informing me that it may involve something about specially-bred pigeons with homing instincts, racing speed, and a prize of a stale bagel for the fastest pigeon. I have no idea if any of this is true, but it sounds too bizarre to be fake. Additionally, it holds the dubious honor of being the most useless bit of trivia I've picked up in quite some time, and is TOTALLY something the aforementioned Weird Guy would have been involved in. In fact, that's probably his Racing Pigeon Transport truck.
Finally, I have two posts up elsewhere. The first is my final Potty Ambassador post (wherein I recount the joys of airplane travel with a newly-trained toddler), and the second is a little something I like to call "In Praise of the $27 Lip Gloss," which is not as bad as it sounds, and is actually one of my favorite things I've written for BeautyHacks to date.